


Finding Dean Winchester

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Botany, Brother Feels, Doctor Sam, Falling In Love, Imperialism, Letters, M/M, Mystery, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Professor Castiel, Riverboat Captain Dean, Science, Scientist Sam, Waistcoats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the S.S. Impala disappears on an expedition along the Amazon River, everyone accepts that the entire crew, including Dean Winchester, is dead.  Everyone, that is, except for Dean's younger brother, the botanist Sam Winchester.<br/>When all of his friends and co-workers tell Sam that it's time to accept Dean's fate and move on, Sam turns to an eccentric anthropology professor named Castiel Novak and his young apprentice for help.<br/>Their mission: Find Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> We're talking riverboat adventures, intrigue, pining, talk of plants, waistcoats, and lots of angst. Who wants?

 

 

 

May 1886

 

 

_In May of 1886, the S.S. Impala made its first journey down the vast, twisting tributary system of the Amazon River.  There were nine souls aboard—the captain, crew, and researchers—all told.  They’d first made port out of Macapá, near where the broad mouth of the Amazon opened up to the turbulent waters of the Atlantic.  They posted news at regular intervals for nearly three weeks, but then correspondence halted._

_Shortly after, inquiries into the whereabouts of the steamship were made by Godson & Godson, Inc., the company that had last hired its services.  After a brief investigation, the official report concluded that although no evidence had been recovered, the S.S. Impala had likely suffered an accident and had sunk to the bottom of the River, or had been plundered by thieves and set afire._

_With that conclusion in mind, Godson & Godson Inc. closed the case, laid the S.S. Impala to rest, and declared the crew dead._

_Nine souls aboard.  All lost._

_People always said Dean Winchester would find an end like that._


	2. Lab Notes and Research

 

 

July, 1886

 

 

The laboratory was warm, shuttered, and smelled vaguely of chemicals.

Behind the long, scarred wooden desk, Sam Winchester sat slumped with his head in his hands.  Papers filled with a cramped, messy scrawl littered the desk around him.  The lab table across the room looked even worse—it was covered in the remnants of experiments—half-finished titrations and petri dishes colored with dark, algae-like films.  Scraps of bark from a sample of _Salix alba_ filled one of the opened jars that sat amid the chaos.  Sam had been busy with it just an hour before.  In layman’s terms, it was White Willow, a tree from which he’d been extracting the chemical compound salicin.  For months now, Godson and Godson, Inc. had been using it to treat fever and inflammation in their clients.

Sam’s research was really coming along; in fact, they’d recently had a breakthrough in a trial involving rats that had been infected with the blood of a Fever patient.  The results were great, impressive even.  However, Sam couldn’t seem to focus.  His thoughts were elsewhere, specifically the collection of letters and pile of books that dominated the entire surface of his desk in his small private apartment down the hall.

The investigation had found nothing substantial, but then, the investigation hadn’t been much of one in the first place.  None of their agents had even traveled to Brazil to find out what had happened to the S.S. Impala, instead relying on contacts already established in that country through their insurers. 

The boat _had_ been insured, so the company did not take a loss.  But Sam’s brother and some of his friends had been on that ship, not to mention hard working men who were doing their best to advance the medical field in whatever way they could.

It had been more than a month since his brother’s disappearance into the unfathomable wilderness of the Amazon Rainforest.  Sam had appealed to his employer, Michael Godson, on more than one occasion to send investigators to the region, if for no other reason than that their research was not done.  Michael had refused.  After, Sam had asked if he could pursue the matter on his own, and though Michael was displeased with the idea, he admitted that what Sam did on his own time was his business, so long as it did not interfere with his research.  Sam assured Michael that it wouldn’t.  And yet, here he sat, staring vacantly at all of his research notes, unable or unwilling to comprehend them further.  Because the reality was that his brother was missing.   Believed to be dead by everyone else.  And he just could not accept that.

As the hours wound down, and Sam was allowed to return to his apartment, he felt marginally better.  Losing himself in half-finished maps and ethnographies concerning people he’d never heard of before was at least a change from the thing that he’d always loved—plants, and all of their properties.  It was why he’d decided to pursue botany of all things, and to become a doctor who occupied himself with the development of new treatments in the battle against infectious diseases.

He’d been trudging through this new avenue of research for weeks now, but with little progress to show for it.  So he had maps of what had been charted of the Amazon, and he had reports of the various peoples there, but it wasn’t enough to bring his brother back.  It wasn’t even enough to allow him to piece together his own expedition.  He needed help, and as far as he could tell, the answer to who could help him had been staring back at him for weeks, but he’d only understood just now.

Every single one of the ethnographies stacked on his desk that had been published within the last decade were written by the same author, a Castiel Novak, PhD.  Sam had at first only glanced at the name, but now he fully processed the information: This man was still alive, and according to what he’d been able to find thus far, he lived in Boston, which was not that far from Philadelphia, where Sam lived. 

Sam regarded the pile of books for a moment and he began to think, then, that he _did_ in fact have a plan. 

Now he only had to figure out if this Dr. Novak would help him.

 

* * *

 

 

For a time, he contemplated writing a letter, only he couldn’t figure out how to start it, or what it should say.  And so that was how he found himself, then, taking a leave of absence from his laboratory at Godson and Godson, much against the wishes of his employer.  He thought he might lose his position over it, and there was still that chance, but he hadn’t yet.  He believed it was because of the research he was currently doing.  If he succeeded, the company would prosper greatly and the fields of science and medicine would advance.  And it was important, very much so.  But Dean was more important.

And so he took the train from Philadelphia and headed northeast to Boston. 

The trip took most of a day, in hot, dreary weather, with idle clouds hanging overhead but offering no rain, no relief.  The passenger cars were packed, and stifling.  Under the layers of Sam’s suit, he could feel the sweat gathering under his arms and trickling down his back.  It was uncomfortable at best.  And as he glanced around at his fellow passengers, he could not understand how the women, under their thick skirts, were still conscious.  Though to be fair, some of the passengers, men and women alike, sat in their seats, drowsing against the windows.

Near midday, Sam tentatively gave up his seat and wandered to the dining car, where he was able to get a decent meal to tide him over for the rest of the journey.  After, he made his way back, and though he found his previous seat already taken, there was an empty one nearby.  He settled himself against the window and pulled his notes from his briefcase.  He’d reviewed what he wanted to say for two days now, but he still felt unsteady about his actions.  Better to prepare further, because he didn’t know what he might do if this plan didn’t succeed.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam Winchester clutched his briefcase and overnight bag in one hand, while the other held the scrap of paper which read “2303 Columbus Ave., Boston.”  He glanced once more from the paper and up to the towering row of 3 story brownstone townhouses which loomed in front of him.  Surely this was not the place?

The entire street had an air of neglected extravagance, like a beautiful ball gown that had been torn at the hem and never mended.  Sam could see large mansions further down the road, but the accompaniments to such grandeur were missing.  Perhaps the previous owners of these homes had moved on to greener pastures?  If so, then who remained?

Sam squared his shoulders and marched up to 2303, which sat tucked amongst identical other townhomes, distinct only because of the number that identified it.  It was a tall, but narrow home, built of dark brick, and imposing in large part because of its neighbors. 

There was no going back now.

Sam raised his fist and rapped at the door with his knuckles. He waited.  It was sweltering hot outside, even in the dim light of early evening. 

He waited.

Moments passed, and Sam raised his hand to knock again.

He waited.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he heard a lock turn on the other side, and the door swung open just enough to reveal who’d opened it.

Sam took in the details of the man like he took in the details of everything: with a trained scientific eye.  This man stood a head or so shorter than Sam himself, with just the hint of a slouch to his lean but still capable looking frame.  Probably in his early 30s.  His dark hair was mussed, like Sam’s often was after a long day poring over his notes.  It wasn’t professional looking in the least, but since this man was at home, Sam supposed the untidiness could be forgiven.  His face was lightly tanned, with just the hint of a shadow at his jaw, and he was dressed in a gray waistcoat and pants, with slightly-scuffed black shoes, and a white shirt.  No tie.  No jacket.  He looked up at Sam with admittedly extraordinary blue eyes, and in a deep voice which surprised Sam, greeted, “Hello.  How can I help you?”

Sam cleared his throat, knowing this was his only shot to meet the mysterious man, and he said “My name is Sam Winchester.  I’d like to speak with Dr. Novak—is he at home?”


	3. A Plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in the tags, this story includes period typical racism and imperialist ideologies. You've been warned.

 

 

July, 1886

 

 

Castiel regarded the young man for a moment, taking in the serious pull of his mouth, and the bags under his eyes.  He debated lying, or at the very least prolonging the point, but in the end, he himself was too weary for such evasions, and so finally he held out his hand to the stranger and said “I’m Castiel Novak.”  As Sam Winchester shook his hand, he motioned him forward into his home.  “Why don’t you come inside and explain why you’re here.”

The young Mr. Winchester followed him into the dimly lit foyer, and then through a short hall to the library, where Castiel had been reading before the interruption.  They found seats and settled across each other.  Castiel gave Sam a moment to observe his new surroundings.  The young man seemed endlessly curious, his eyes roaming over the details of the space, seemingly cataloguing everything he found.  For a moment, Castiel was content to watch him, making his own observations.  It had been a long time since someone had turned up on his doorstep without an invitation, and the few times it had happened, it hadn’t generally been pleasant.

Finally, Castiel cleared his throat and prompted, “Mr. Winchester?”

Sam shook himself, and blushed lightly at his lack of manners.  “I apologize for my rudeness, I’m just surprised.”

“Oh?”

“I hadn’t expected you to open your own door… not that there’s anything wrong with that.  It just caught me off guard.  And I thought you’d be older.  Much older, actually.  Someone as accomplished in the field as yourself….”

Castiel allowed Sam to ramble, until the words ran out.  Then he decided to help the younger man.  “So why have you sought me out, Mr. Winchester?  I must admit, this is rather unexpected.”

Again, Sam blushed.  “And I apologize for that, as well.  I thought about sending correspondence ahead, but the matter I’ve come to discuss with you is rather time sensitive.”

“Oh, and what is that?”

Sam suddenly sat straighter, and squared his substantial shoulders.  “I’ve come to ask for your assistance, and your expertise.”

“Go on.”

“I am a botanist at Godson and Godson.  We do research in the hopes of advancing the medical field. Our current project presented the need for extended research, and so we recently sent an expedition to Brazil to scout along the Amazon River for potential supplies.  In May, we stopped receiving correspondence from them, and it was concluded that the boat and all nine passengers were lost or dead.”

“How unfortunate,” Castiel murmured, “my condolences.”

“Yes, well,” Sam muttered, “I’ve been pursuing the matter further, doing my own research on the region, but it’s all rather nebulous, and it’s difficult to figure out where to start.  Then I found your books, and, well… you are the preeminent expert on the region.  I was rather hoping that you could help me.”

Castiel considered the young man again.  He appeared earnest enough, but…. “I’m sorry that you’ve come all this way, Mr. Winchester.  But I’m no longer involved with Amazonia and its peoples, and I make a conscious effort not to entangle myself in the affairs of corporate ventures.”

“Please,” Sam appealed, “Think of the nine men who were lost.  Won’t you at least try to help them?”

“And what would you have me do?”

“At the very least, point me in the right direction for my own research.  Allow me to study some maps.”

Castiel snorted indelicately.  “You said you’ve read my books.”

“Yes.  All of them, I think.”

“Then that’s all I can give you.  The only maps that exist are in those books.  And you won’t find any better research, unless you travel the great Amazon yourself.”

“Well, can you help me to arrange that?”

“Why waste your time?  I’m sure that a company as prominent as Godson and Godson can hire their own investigators, if that is your concern.”

Sam shifted in his seat, and his face grew even more serious.  “They already have.  The investigators said there was nothing further to report.  The boat and its crew are gone.”

“Then I suggest the matter is concluded.  Why don’t you let it lie and try to move on?  I’m sure the company has other assets.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, and he made an unconscious fist with his hand.  “They’re not assets, they’re people.”

“Of course.”

Sam stood abruptly, his carefully contained frustration finally erupting.  “My brother was on that crew.  And our friends.”  His voice was carefully modulated, but Castiel wondered if violence was soon to follow.  “I’m not here on behalf of Godson and Godson.  In fact, they told me to leave it alone.  But I refuse to do that.  I refuse to leave my brother for dead.  Now, I’ve already tried everything I can think of, and you seem to be my best hope.  If you won’t help me, by God I will find another way, but I’m begging you, as a decent human being, to help me find my brother.”

Castiel could admit that he was stunned by the emotional display, and surprised that he had gotten the situation so wrong.  Generally, his instincts were better about these things.  So, this appeal was personal.  That changed a lot. 

Castiel sighed and waved Sam Winchester back toward his seat, saying “Please Mr. Winchester, take a seat.”

“Sam.”

“Sam.  Please.”  Finally, the young man, who happened to tower over Castiel, settled into his chair again.  Then Castiel raised his voice to call “Kevin?  Could you bring in some tea and join us?”

From just around the corner, the voice of Kevin Tran called “Of course.  Just a moment.”

The moment of waiting was tense, the air filled with a mixture of sorrow and desperation, and the hint of violence still.  Eventually, though, Kevin arrived with a tray filled with tea and cream and sugar, which he placed on the low table between the chairs, and he settled himself to Castiel’s left.  After short prompting, Sam accepted a cup of tea, and seemed to relax minutely into his seat.

Castiel sighed and said.  “Let’s start again, shall we?  Sam, tell me about your brother.”

 

 

 

 

“My brother’s name is Dean.  He’s the captain of the S.S. Impala, the steamship that Godson and Godson hired for the Brazil expedition.  The crew was made up of our mutual friends, but also a lot of good scientists who went to catalogue their findings and send samples back to us.  We received letters for three weeks, before they suddenly stopped.  No one can give us any answers, but like I already told you, I’m unwilling to write my brother off as dead, even if Godson and Godson are no longer interested.”

Castiel steepled his fingers and glanced sideways at Kevin, before asking “And what exactly were the researchers cataloguing?”

“We were particularly interested in new botanicals from the region.  There have always been stories, as I’m sure you’re aware, of witch doctors healing the sick and performing magic in the jungles.  Science gives us a more logical explanation for these so-called miracles.”

Castiel quirked an eyebrow.  “And what explanation would that be?”

“Botany, of course.  Chemical compounds in the plants of the region, harnessed as medicine.” 

“Ah.  Of course.”

Sam frowned for a moment, and glanced back and forth between Kevin and Castiel before saying “Surely a man as educated as yourself does not believe in these superstitions and tales of magic?”

Castiel smiled easily.  “Of course not.”  He waved his hand casually.  “So then, what medicine was it that Godson and Godson was looking for?”

“I’ve—I mean, _we’ve_ been working on a treatment for cholera.  Maybe even a cure.”  Sam sighed and his shoulders slumped.  “The cholera outbreak of 1883 ravaged much of the South, and the coast.  It was devastating.  If I can find a cure, well, think of the lives that can be saved.”

“That’s very noble of you, Sam.”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right.  And that’s what Dean was trying to do, too.”

“I’m curious—why was your brother the one to head this expedition?  Is he a scientist as well?”

Sam smiled fondly, before the curve of his lips turned sad.  “No, Dean’s not a scientist.  Godson and Godson attempted to hire others at first, but they all refused.  They said the journey was too dangerous, and that the price wasn’t worth it.  They only asked Dean because they know he’s my brother, and hoped he’d be more invested in the idea.”  Sam bowed his head.  “He did it for me, but not _just_ for me.  He knows how important this cure could be.  He’s a good man.”

“If this expedition was so important, then… pardon my frankness, but why hasn’t Godson and Godson made more of an effort to locate the ship and crew?”

Sam’s jaw tightened dangerously again.  “They’ve decided to pursue research in Eastern Europe instead.  And the loss incurred by the crew was… negligible to them.”

“Negligible.”

“All our lives, society has been telling Dean that the world would be better off without people like him in it.  This is nothing new.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sam chuckled darkly.  “It’s a long story that I’d rather not go into right now.  Will you help me or not?”

Castiel turned to meet Kevin’s eyes, and they communicated silently for a moment.  The young man finally quirked his lips and shrugged.  Castiel turned back to Sam.  “We’ll need as much information as you have.”

“I have it.”  Sam heaved his briefcase onto his lap.  “It’s all here.”

“Leave it with Kevin, and we’ll review it.”

Sam darted his eyes to the young man, nervously, but then back to Castiel.  “Does that mean… will you help me?”

“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

Sam rose to his feet very quickly and thrust a hand out at Castiel.  “Thank you, Dr. Novak.  I can’t tell you how thankful I am.”

Castiel shook his hand briefly.  “Please, Sam, call me Castiel.”

“Castiel.  Thank you.”  Then he rolled his shoulders and said “I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful, but this matter is very personal to me.  I don’t know how I feel about….”  He flicked his eyes toward Kevin again, “…other people getting involved.”

Castiel smiled evenly, and Kevin didn’t even seem to have heard.  “That’s understandable, Sam.  However, Kevin is not a random individual.  He is, in fact, my apprentice.  And even though the institution of higher education in this country might not recognize his achievements because of his race, he has been a valuable research assistant and friend to me.  And he deserves your respect.  What is more—if you want my help, you will accept his.”

Sam swallowed thickly, obviously chastised, and he bowed his head.  “I understand.  My apologies.”  He glanced at Kevin again and bowed his head humbly.  “I beg your pardon.”

Kevin shrugged.  “No hard feelings.”

“Now,” Castiel said, rising and stretching, “it’s late.  Where are you staying, Sam?”

“Well, I….  Uh, I hadn’t thought….”

Castiel sighed.  “Kevin, will you show him to the upstairs guest room?”

“Of course.”

On their way out the door, Castiel stopped them, calling “Get your rest, Sam.  I imagine we’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

Sam nodded and said “Thank you again.  I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

After he was left alone in the library, Castiel poured himself a tumbler of brandy and settled back into his seat.  He opened the briefcase that Sam had left, and beheld the stacks of letters and maps and plans.  “I think I’m about to learn,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love. My tumblr is http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


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